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"Thanks be to God," prayed Myrtle Westacott. The chintz-attired woman genuflected and filed down the aisle with the
congregation of St. John's Catholic Church in Valley Falls, New York. Outside, she proceeded
along Maple Street to her tree-shaded gingerbread house. Another Victorian house retaining peeling clapboards,
with a crooked picket fence surrounding it, stood two doors down from
Mert's. Gertrude Carver lived there. Situated between Carver's and Westacott's
was Franklin's Market, a hub of the 150-year-old village.
The two women had been friends for many years. Mert was a homemaker and a widow. She and her husband
raised four daughters and had been active in the community until his death from heart disease ten years
before. Gert had remained single and had been a beloved schoolteacher until her retirement one year ago. Presently, Mert and Gert enjoyed their favorite past-time and hobby – mining old bottles.
Mert hurried out of her dress and sandals, changing into a jogging suit and
sneakers. At ten o'clock a horn tooted in the drive.She noted Gert was on time, then
went through the door humming The Tennessee Waltz.The women proceeded to a farm situated five miles
south of Valley Falls. They drove past a farmhouse on a vast green lawn where
ancient trees spread their twisted limbs and undulating leaves.
A little ways before a fence bordering the Gilhooley farmland, Gert parked the car
off the pavement. She opened the trunk and removed two pairs of rakes, shovels, hoes and garden gloves.
Gert walked with Mert in the opposite direction of the house to a field of high
grass. They slipped beneath a barbed fence and
continued along a worn path to a steep embankment. Gert's short, stocky frame half-slid, half
shuffled downhill. It took some doing, but Mert made it to the bottom, never once
losing her ladylike composure.
The unused dump, once utilized by generations of Gilhooleys, was filled with
rusty tins, shards of china and broken glass, cracked porcelain bathroom fixtures and a
conglomeration of unusable household and barn items. Gert and Mert claimed spots a few
yards from each other, unearthing brightly colored
soda bottles with applied tops. One bottle was cobalt blue with the embossing
'C. Cleminshaw Soda and Mineral Water, Troy, New York. Mert dug up three aqua 'London Dry Gins,' Made in
England, with applied tops. Gert dug up two aqua barrel mustard jars, a variety of
whiskey flasks and a purple-tinted inkwell.
While immersed in digging, the miners failed to hear a rickety hay wagon pulled
by an old mare, draw up along the edge of the bank and stop. As Cyrus Gilhooley, a 6' 4"
Irish-American, hopped off the wagon, a giant shadow flitted across the ground.
Mert let go of the amber soda she was holding. It struck a brick and splintered
into pieces. "Mr. Gilhooley, you scared me to death!"
Cyrus removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and apologized, "I didn't mean to
cause any grief. I dropped by to see what's going on."
Gert tapped gently with a shovel the long neck of an embossed medicine bottle
lying next to a carnival glass whiskey. She said invitingly, "come down and see what
we've been digging, Cyrus."
The sixtyish farmer scrambled down the hill with little effort. He stood erect with
hands shoved into the deep pockets of his denim-coveralls and took in the lot.
"Why do you dig for old bottles?" he asked.
Gert heaved a shovelful of dirt to one side and puffed, "Mert and I collect antique
glass and take duplicates to flea markets. Isn't this one a beauty?" She wiped dirt off an
amethyst perfumery bottle.
Cyrus speared a rusty teapot by the handle with a stick.
"I can fix this pot good as new," he tucked the castaway beneath his arm and
moved on. Cyrus collected agateware, tobacco tins, blue willow stoneware, a toaster, porcelain
knobs and old bottles. He carted the junk up the hill and loaded it onto the wagon and
rode down the wagon trail through the fields in time
to see a fiery sun setting over the barn roof.
On an uncomfortably hot July afternoon, the wagoner came to the dump as was his
usual occupation these days. Fanning his face with a switch from a pine tree, Cyrus
remained seated on the wagon and called down to the miners.
"Hey Gert and Mert, I've something to show you. Come with me."
Gert leaned over and whispered to Mert, "Take a breather, Mert. Go along with
Cyrus. I'll stay here and dig. I'll share the lot when you come back."
Mert glared at Gert. The latter surrendered to the inevitable and sighed, "I haven't dug
anything worthwhile in an hour. Let's see what Cyrus is up to. Perhaps my luck will
change when we get back."
They climbed over scrub oak and made their way to the top of the hill. Cyrus assisted
them onto the wagon and when they were settled on the wooden bench seat, he signaled the
mare to move on. The wagon bumped along an old pasture trail, passing through fields separated by stone walls where cows and sheep grazed. It wobbled
past strawberry fields, down a great rolling corn field, tilting at such sharp angles the
passengers clung to its sides, welcoming a faint breeze.
The slate roof of the farmhouse stood out among tall pine trees. The trio passed a
homely residence where a twisted old woman sat in partial sunlight on the front porch.
A collie wagging its tail lay beside her. Drawing up before a red barn, they clamored out of the
wagon. Cyrus preceded Mert and Gert to the back of the huge leaning structure
where sparkling glassware and gleaming tins sat on hewn shelves.
"Ain't that a sight? Everything I dug up is as good as new."
Gert's eyes cleaved to an object in the corner. "What's that over there?"
"T'aint nothin' but an old jug chucked there for as long as I can remember...thirty
years or more." Cyrus tugged at an ear. "You want it, Gert, take it."
Back in her old-time kitchen, Gert unwrapped the jug, peeled off dried leaves and
mud, then washed and patted the old vessel dry. She reached for the telephone and dialed.
In the aromatic Westakott kitchen, Mert banged the oven door shut and dropped a tin
of Banana-nut muffins on a mat. She hurried to pick up
the receiver and said primly, Westakott residence, Mert speaking."
"Mert, come over here right away!"
The line hummed vacuously. Mert breathed, "Is that you Gert?" When there was no
answer she stared at the phone, alarmed at being cut off. Mert hurried across the gangway behind Franklin's
Market to her friend's house. She climbed groaning steps to the back porch and let
herself in through the ragged screen door.
Gert hailed, "Hurry. I want you to see this." She held up the jug Cyrus gave her.
"You called me over to see that jug? I could've had a heart attack," Mert said crossly,
pressing a hand to her chest. "I thought something happened to you."
Gert thrust out a magnifying glass. "Come look at the pieces on this jug."
Mert shuffled across the uneven floor, accepted the magnifier and positioned it before
the jug. She detected old coins, buttons and medals. Rotating it slowly, she viewed a
china doll's head, a cameo, broken rosary beads, metal hoe and rake toys, old barrettes, shoe
buckles and jewelry cemented onto it.
"What type of jug is this?" She asked incredulously.
Gert said excitedly, "I'll call a meeting of the Valley Falls Bottle Miners Club. We'll
meet here tomorrow morning. I expect one of the members will have an answer!"
A carnival assortment of creatures gathered in Gert's cozy kitchen. The favored jug
sat in the middle of an oil-cloth covered table causing a stir among the guests.
"It's a mystery to me," deemed Henry Porter, a wizened junk dealer with a fringe of
white hair circling his bald head. "I've been in the flea-market business thirty-two
years and haven't seen anything like this." He scratched his chin. "Could it be a whim?"
Sadie Gladstone, a loud, vulgar woman whose large form appeared larger in a snug-fitting leisure suit, was the most knowledgeable of
the group. The curio dealer said in a stentorian voice, "Let me read this to you." She
referred to a pocket-sized book. "In the late 1800's there was a fad where individuals would cement
onto old jugs and bottles, bits and pieces of their favorite possessions. When this
procedure was completed, it was called the 'Crazy Jug.' Ordinarily, a pair of jugs were made to
decorate a mantle."
Everyone in the circle began to speak at once. Sadie's voice bellowed and she pointed
a ringed finger at the jug. "That is a ‘Crazy Jug,’" she said superciliously.
"I'll bet my gold tooth there's a mate to this one and it's still on the Gilhooley farm,"
exclaimed Henry Porter, banging his fist on the table.
Gert drew the jug close to her and gave Henry a searing look.
Donald Soames, an anemic-looking, bespectacled collector of antique clocks and
Saratoga bottles leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and gazed intently at Gert. "Don't
waste your time looking for the other jug, Gert. Gilhooley has a twin brother, Clement. I'm of
the opinion he has the mate to the jug."
"Cyrus has a twin?" Mert's face registered surprise. She was seated in a rocking chair
next to the window, sewing the back on a pale green baby sweater for her pregnant niece.
"Ay-yah. Lillian Gilhooley nearly lost Clement at birth. He was a sickly child and
kept home under his mother's care. That boy was a half-wit. He still is."
Gert gave Soames an assessing glance and said drily, "Why hasn't there been any mention of Clement in the
village?"
"You won't find Valley Falls folks willing to discuss Clement Gilhooley in respect to
old Lillian, I reckon. Clement's a recluse living in the backwoods." Soames blew his nose and
wadded the handkerchief into his pocket. "I've been to his cabin many times offering a good
price for his stuff. The barn is chock full of
antiques. He won't part with a nail."
"It's possible Cyrus has the other jug," offered gum-chewing Sadie.
"Old lady Gilhooley splits everything down the middle with her sons," said Soames.
"Clement's got the other jug. I'd bet my Civil War flask on it."
"I could ask Cyrus to speak to Clement about it," Gert brightened.
"I wouldn't mention Clement's name to Cyrus if I were you, Gert." Soames shook his
head dolefully. "The brothers haven't spoken in years."
"Where did you say Clement's house is located?" asked Gert speculatively.
"I didn't say," grinned Soames. "It's on Snyder Hill Road in Cambridge, next to
Bloom's field."
"I think you should speak to Cyrus and tell him what you're up to." Mert spoke
reproachfully to Gert as they threaded along the back roads to Cambridge. The day was
gray and overcast, threatening rain at any moment. "Must you have a pair of crazy jugs?
What if Donald is wrong and Cyrus has the other jug?" she prophesized.
"Donald Soames is never wrong. You know what a shrewd businessman he is. He
makes dollars off old coffee tins." Gert bit her lip, looking determined. "I want a pair of crazy
jugs for my mantle.”
Mert frowned. "Donald Soames is not an honest man. There are rumors..."
"I don't pay attention to gossip," Gert retorted, pulling the Escort before a massive,
overgrown hedgerow. As she opened the door, a dog growled beyond the clump of hedges
and the sound of a chain clanked inimically. It appeared as I\if Mert would not take a step further.
"Don't worry, that dog is chained," Gert uttered with conviction.
"He could be turned loose and may be vicious," Mert said, weak-kneed.
Gert waved the notion aside. "People don't turn dogs loose on old ladies. If you're not
comfortable going to the house, wait here. I won't be long." She was determinedly off and
advancing through a squeaky iron gate.
The bottle miners walked down a weedy path which opened onto a clearing. A
desolate log cabin surrounded by an unkempt, weed-ridden garden, stood before them.
Pacing between the front porch and a utility pole, was a Doberman-Pit Bull secured by a
leash on a runner. He growled fiercely.
Gert stepped ahead cautiously. "There pup, nice doggie."
Without warning, a bullet whizzed past her head. She retreated down the path with
Mert clinging to the tail of her blouse.
At the Valley Falls dump, Mert settled herself upon a log to recover from her
earth-shaking experience. She sprang up when a loud, crackling sound splintered the air. On
the other side of a thicket, Cyrus Gilhooley was shoveling rubbish into a pile. He gave no
indication he knew anyone was there. Gert considered the old timer a moment, then ventured
around the brush to present herself to him.
"Fine morning, Cyrus," she attempted to keep her voice steady.
"Yep it is." He grumbled. His eyes never left the ground.
Gert snapped a twig off a piney shrub and peeled it. New confidence was beginning
to surge through her.
"Do you remember the jug you gave me the other day in the barn?"
"Yep, I do."
Sadie Gladstone says it's a crazy jug. Do you know what a crazy jug is, Cyrus?"
He gave a sort of a grunt. Gert ventured boldly on. "Donald Soames is of the opinion your brother has the
mate to the crazy jug. Does Clement have it, Cyrus?"
The old man's face turned to granite. He replied, "I've the other jug,
Gert. Don't set your mind on it."
Gert's eyes expressed incomprehension. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Pay up $40.00 or give the jug back." The farmer's jaw was set firmly.
"You gave the jug to me Cyrus. Now you're asking for money. Why?" She flashed
angry eyes at him.
The farmer's mouth twitched as he spoke, "Donald Soames offered me $75.00 for the
pair of jugs. I sold him the other one for $40.00."
Gert's body gave one hard shudder. She fumbled in her change purse and extracted
two twenty dollar bills, handing the money to him.
"Ya know Gert," said Cyrus, tucking the cash into his pocket, "if ya minded yer
business and didn't rake up the hell-fire between me and my brother, ya could've had both
jugs. I was about to give ya the other one. Ya got me riled by going over to see Clement.
Soames told me all about it." He shook his head,
"Thank God Soames came along b'fore I made a fool of meself."
Mert took hold of Gert's arm and ushered her along the path to the car. In a dogged
manner, Gert said, "That jackass Soames steered me wrong." Mert raised a fingertip to her lips.
Disregarding the warning, Gert went on, "Cyrus Gilhooley put my mouth in the back
of my head."
Mert nodded her head positively.
As time went on, Gert retold the story of the crazy jug with a slightly different twist
each time. Presently, one crazy jug sits on her fireplace mantle...a reminder of the good
old days.
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